Читать книгу The Wave - Virginia Moffatt - Страница 17

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To: Seren Lovelace

6.30 p.m.

Have you seen this Facebook page everyone’s talking about? People gathered on Dowetha Beach. The hair’s different but that’s Penny, isn’t it? Andy.

To: Andy Jones

God. I think you’re right. S.

BBC Breaking News 6.45 p.m.

… Downing Street confirms that the Natural Disaster Early Warning Unit, cancelled due to government funding cuts could have identified the problem sooner. Senior volcanologist claims lives will be lost because of it. More to follow …

Facebook

Dowetha Live

30 August 6.50 p.m.

Image: Group selfie, four women, three men, sitting round a campfire.

Welcome to Dowetha Live.

We’re down in Cornwall and we don’t think we can get out in time. So we’re staying here, to enjoy the time we have left.

It’s beautiful on this beach. We’re going to share photos and thoughts as the night goes on. But we know it won’t be easy. We could do with some help, so please leave encouraging thoughts below.

Word of warning. Trolls not welcome. Your comments will be deleted and you will be blocked.

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Sue Hastings. I can’t even … Wow. You’re amazingly brave. Sending love and thoughts.

Alec Howes. Hope you find friendship and comfort tonight. Solidarity.

2 mins

Salaam Mosque. The community of the Salaam Mosque will be praying for you throughout our daily prayers. We are with you in your sadness and fear. Inshallah you shall find hope and generosity in these last hours. Love and Peace. x

10 mins

Facebook

Poppy Armstrong

30 August 7.00 p.m.

It is six hours since I last posted. Six hours! I am overwhelmed by the warmth of your messages, and for your concern for me. Thank you. I’m afraid I cannot answer everyone so please accept this general post instead. The most important thing to tell you is that I am no longer alone. There are several of us now. Some came by chance, looking for sea air. Some in response to my message. Some because they have run out of places to go. And despite what is to come, Dowetha has served up its best for us today. Strong winds, and bright sunshine, made for a perfect surf this afternoon, followed by an invigorating swim. The air has stilled since and now the water is calm. The sun is setting, sending us red beams across the water, a final reminder of the beauty of our days, before the onset of darkness. Pale blue lingers in the sky – soon it will be replaced by blackness of night as the stars rise to shine on us for the last time

It is still hard to imagine it as we’ve sipped our beer or wine and nibbling salt and vinegar crisps, waiting for food to cook on the barbecue. Hard to face the fact of our deaths when we feel so alive in the warm glow of day’s end. Hard to realize this is the last time any of us will listen to the soft splash of the waves on the shore – the sound of the sea moving back and forth, back and forth. Today has been like any of the other summer days I have spent here, surfing, swimming, sunbathing. It’s been just another summer day except for the knowledge that a volcano 2,000 miles way is about to collapse. That our fates were decided by cracks that appeared in its surface long before most of us were even born.

We have had our fair share of complaints sitting here, about the unfairness of it all. If the scientists had not made such a terrible mistake, if we hadn’t moved here to escape the smoggy dangerous city, if only we’d gone to visit friends as we’d planned … If, if, if … we’d be watching on TV like the rest of the horrified nation, instead of sitting here, with the cooling sand slipping between our toes, as the mournful gulls circle above us.

We keep wondering whether we were wrong to stay. Perhaps some on the road will make it in time. But those who tried, report sitting in solid traffic as cheese sandwiches congealed and engines overheated. They carried on until the point at which it was clear they would not be moving any further; turned round and ended up here, lured by the open air, sea, the promise of company.

I suppose we could still go home. Bolt the door, draw the curtains, and hide under the duvet. We could spend the time watching box sets of Star Trek or Friends, The Sopranos or House, Anything that helped us while away the time and pretend our world is not about to end.

And the wave will come for us wherever we are, and whatever we are doing. So I am glad we are here to face it. Tomorrow morning, nine hours after the collapse of Cumbre Viejo, the sea will draw in its waters with the deepest of breaths. It will retreat far down the ocean bed, revealing the inhabitants of the sea bed – bass, cockles, mussels, crabs and snails – exposed for a moment to the air. And we will know, then, that the wave is coming for us. A thousand feet of water racing towards us, condemning us to death.

It is still hard to imagine it, sitting here on this perfect summer night, the sun departed, the first stars beginning to light the darkening sky, that tomorrow this will all be gone. We will all be gone. So we try not to. Instead we will sit by the campfire, telling each other the stories of our lives. Hands held in the darkness. Offering comfort in the face of what is to come.

The night will pass slowly. Watch with us if you can. When morning comes, we will be gone

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30 likes 22 shares

Five other comments

Jake Marsden Silly bitch. You should have left. You deserve to drown

Alice Evans It’s very slow now. We’re hoping it will improve when we hit the dual carriageway. Singing silly songs to keep our spirits up . Glad you are not alone x

10 mins

Beverley Lewis Oh Poppy, you amaze as always. Will text you, perhaps we could chat?

3 mins

Finn Matthews. Lots of love, and ignore the trolls

2 min